


The Halo in Your Eyes

by Certified_Ceraunophile



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Canon deleted scenes, Caroline and Klaus have a heart to heart of sorts, Caroline let's Klaus know He's full of it, DUDE THERE IS SO MUCH PRETENSION, F/M, I have gone above and beyond to project my pretension in this work, It's basically a How we First Met for KC, Klaus is a posturing Bastard, Rewrite of Caroline's first Hybrid Bite (courtesy of Tyler) and the ensuing healing shenanigans, THERE'S LIKE ZERO ROMANCE IN THIS, The tags are officially a mess, You know the ususal KC shenanigans, and I am pre-emptively sorry not sorry for the pretension, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Certified_Ceraunophile/pseuds/Certified_Ceraunophile
Summary: She stares him down.“Are you going to kill me?”.She stares him down All the way back to Hell, the fire in her eyes, on more blurrier days, the Devil would call it home.“On your birthday? Do you really think that low of me?”The devil must ask.“Yes.”The weakened must answer.And the Devil now finds himself speechless.OR, Anextremelypretentious retelling of the event’s of Caroline’s first Hybrid bite (TVD 3X11 “Our Town”)OR, That time when Caroline sleepily womansplains who Klaus is to Klaus with the help of a vending machine.
Relationships: Caroline Forbes/Klaus Mikaelson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22
Collections: Klaroline Winter Gift Exchange 2021





	The Halo in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TNaPKI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TNaPKI/gifts).



> Alrighty a few notes before we start.
> 
> Point the first,  
> This work is a gift for the lovely, the marvellously talented, the badass and just absolute joy to be around, Tina!  
> (aka TNaPKI) You know I adore ya girl! And I hope you enjoy this work. I tried to give you something as close to canon as possible, while also saying a massive fuck you to it, because I am very versatile like that, I think what I've written for you is a close approximation of what I would like to think is the "deleted scenes" for the 3x11 episode (Caroline's First Hybrid Bite). I mean this episode is where the all the Magnificence that is KLAROLINE started, so I'm hoping I did right by both you and this iconic scene. I await your thoughts!
> 
> Point the second,  
> It is my sincere advice to all of you that you absolutely just do NOT try to make sense of the POV's in this story, because I assure you they will not make sense, mostly because this work is basically me experimenting for the first time with third person omniscient mixed with third person limited, I tried to allow both Klaus and Caroline's POV's be direct "thinking out loud thoughts" to the narrator so that you can hear both their voices at the same time, but it turned out to be something entirely different, I am not sure what I have written here in terms of POV's but I felt like shaking things up a bit and so I did, and here we are. 
> 
> Point the third  
> I forgot to mention this earlier, but lot's of thanks to Kait (remaninlight) for Beta'ing the first partof this monstrosity, she was critical in all the most crucial ways and very professional, I was amazed by the number of new perspectives I found from her second opinion alone, and she has definitily edified me for the better, so lot's and lot's of thanks to her! 
> 
> Point the fourth,  
> PLEASE ENJOY THIS MONSTROSITY I HAVE BEGAT.

* * *

Also here's a tiny Gift within a Gift for you Tina,

* * *

What she noticed at first was that it didn't burn, not as much.

The wound now festering with werewolf poison blacker than the veins protruding against the skin of her shoulder did not burn, at least not as much as the sun.

Definitely not as much as it did on the day her father decided the sun would teach his daughter the fear of blood, the fear of her own existence.

It was all a bit ironic, a gay with a conversion therapy up his sleeve to discipline her blood smeared tongue, but she supposes it’s the universe’s sorry attempt at humour, or maybe it was a cleanup job by the Grand Maker, here to sweep up the lasting remnants of one Caroline Forbes, the remnants her vampirism had pulled together and discarded to the world in pieces jumbled and chipped at the edges, some that cracked and others that were too shiny they shunned the eye, but pieces of one Caroline Forbes all the same.

It's why sometimes when she’s standing there with her pieces, and finds them too sharp or perhaps too heavy, there’s a soft voice in her head, reminding her of what her mom always said to her, that lovely little Carebear, Oh she loved her puzzles.

The ones you put together piece by piece, gently into place then press it firm, when the shards don’t cut your hand anymore but cut each other perfectly and it’s not the pretty little perfect picture at the end of the effort that thrilled seven year old Caroline with a row of missing teeth and pigtails pulled too tight, it’s the absence of chaos by the end of it that delighted her. It’s the order and the clean lines of the picture that settled her hands.

So she doesn’t tell anyone, that sometimes when she smells blood she smells it burnt, and she smells her own, and sometimes when she smells the acrid hiss of smoke, she smells the sweet tang of blood, it’s all a bit _mucky_ in her mind; blood, fire, flesh, _fear_. The chaos of it all throws her off, jumbled and warped, blurring lines that pull each other too strong they rip and bleed.

So when she tries to settle it, with pink hands calming the gooseflesh, and slurred breath that whispers sweet everythings into the same air her lungs have long derided to use, she pulls her cardigan closer on the sunniest of days and covers her arms and back, she stands in the dark alone to her heartbeat surrounded by her breath, and checks her daylight ring twice, thrice, pushes it farther down her finger and keeps her back to the wall. She doesn't think anyone’s noticed, that she jumps every time the shutters clatter open and sunlight impales the room, or that she never sits with her back to the sun, but the chaos never settles, it subsides, it slithers into a corner so dark it’s blank and opaque, but it never settles.

So she supposes there is something to look forward to, the chaos will settle when her final breath does.

Little Miss Caroline Forbes, of course she finds something to look forward to even in death, giddy optimism with a touch of desperation.

And then she starts to listen, or perhaps her ears starts to listen, of their own accord of course, she did not sanction this act of rebellion by her senses, but she has understood that her vampire ears have found it in them to pay _zero_ respite to her tumultuous mind that has run flailing in all four directions and has found nothing of great import other than the glaring red-eyed truth of the future and just that; death.

So now she dulls the pain with the cracks and creaks of the resounding world, slowly funneling around her senses, the world is so _awake_ in her final hour, here a sly rustle of grass tender and taunting and there a perfunctory night time hoot of the birds flocking the woods, a slight drone of a car three blocks away, musty engine and mustier windshields being wiped, and of course a babbling brook always seems to babble away, insouciant and unruffled in it’s babbling. But the pain doesn't dull it’s course, it’s grip. It simply slips in further, inserts a claw here and fang there and now delights in the cacophony her mind has wrought with great surmounting pleasure.

She would scoff if she could, but every spare breath rattles her ribs and every heaving sigh bands over her lungs with a proprietary grip and squeezes poison faster into it. She chances a look at her shoulder, neck craning, and swallows at the sight before her.

Black and bleeding, festering flesh and oozing venom, and right there it sits on her shoulder, four fangs deep and permanent, the mark of Tyler’s love.

This love of his, it is no whispered confession tucked under one breath and heaved over with trembling hands and sweating palms, this one is bright and red, loud in it’s wailing and grand in it’s truth, this love of his is a mark on her skin, poisonous and dead.

A mark that attests to the strength of his love, or more so the frailty of it, She plays those three words in her mind over and over and over again, Tyler’s voice and Tyler’s eyes a brand beneath her eyelids.

“I love you.”

And somehow she finds the bite of the venom only sharpens it’s blade and presses it further into her flesh each time she hears those words in her head, and she loathes that even in her last hours, as the venom bleeds it’s harvested death, drop by agonising drop into her heart, each pump pulling it closer and closer greatly unlike a mother would her child to her bosom, each silent heartbeat a countdown to another kind of eternity, the one she escaped with her vampirism,

She can’t help but feel…... _jealous_.

Jealous of Stefan and Elena.

Jealous of that one moment they all witnessed, standing in a gymnasium that reeked of floor cleaner and sweat, as Klaus _compelled_ the love out of Stefan and it still remained, that moment when even compelled by the most powerful creature on Earth, a compulsion that would break the bones of a vampire under the weight of it, was broken free off instead, and that moment when simple, oh so _simple_ love prevailed.

She’s jealous of that moment,

When Stefan with the blood of a hundred innocent humans in his veins, each drop of blood a stolen momentary appeasement of flesh, each death nothing but a full distended belly, and the eyes of a miscarried Vampire: a Ripper, failed to kill Elena even when his mind was compelled to do nothing less than just that, when his mind was annexed to but an extension of Klaus’s will and his body was a slave to the sweet stench of sweeter Elena’s blood, His soul still _submitted_ to Elena, and she is jealous of that.

Or perhaps angry, that Tyler could not do the same, and she sees that she’s angry at herself and not him, that she couldn’t hold a place in his soul long enough to escape death, that the sire bond, a slaves indentured will to serve the master was greater than her great, oh so _great_ love.

So now as she feels her eyes blur from tears and her heart mist with doubt, she decides to ponder on more relevant topics of the future than the done deeds of the past, and now she’s hit with this question, a rather fortuitous one,

Is it Heaven or Hell for her?

Does the last breath draw Darkness and just that, or the light of a thousand fires in almighty Hell.

And as she lays there thinking of all the _words_ she would like to have with that Angel she is sure she’ll meet at the crossroads of the afterlife, she hears the door of her bedroom meekly rasp the arrival of an unwelcome visitor, a sightseer perhaps, silent as the whispers of demons and immutable as time, with her final moments no longer a daunting background but an imperious scenery before her, she draws in a yielding breath as blurred eyes focus on the intruder,

And right there she has her answer, The Devil himself brings it, Hell it is after all.

* * *

The sight before him was one of triumph, it was the spoils of war laid bare before his feet, marked as his with blood and fear, gleaned with terror and loss,

It delighted him greatly.

It was rare that things won in war were as pretty as she, brute men of battle with surfeit blood to spare seldom did find themselves in the company of such _exquisite_ ornaments.

A head of gold, skin of milk, and eyes as unmissable as the moon, She is indeed.... _lavish_.

And more pertinently mighty useful in this exact moment, the festering wound on her shoulder was as perfect as the last stroke in a painting, here a splash of red, there a tint of black and look at these recreants bend one knee and offer their back to carry his plans to fruition.

An invite to a weakened enemy’s abode, an indebted favour from the town sheriff, and the submission of a wayward servant all scored in a single night, it was a night of triumph indeed.

So now as he stands with a privileged air of impatience only worn well by the triumphant he finds he has a minute or two to indulge in his spoils albeit a bit prematurely, but nonetheless appropriately deserved.

An undemanding bargain with minimal effort, and exclusive gain, all it would take to finish the deal was a glass full of his blood placed with a rather unassuming note stating delicate violence against the girl’s family and friends, of course with pertinent details of the act itself left to the imagination, it was a formality with little pomp and much purpose, and where pray tell mate, is the fun in that?

So he will linger, prod, _provoke_ , then soothe and repeat, watch her wriggle with more than just the testy discomfort of death, perhaps savour a poignant whimper or two and of course end with a relishable wail for mercy, it would be a performance, and her soon to be charitably undone death is his awaiting stage.

He licks his lips, spikes the words that are about to spill with sweet, sweet poison and he knows his words will crawl beneath her skin and sink to her bones, dig into her flesh and curl around her neck, a noose to be tightened, to be tethered, a faithful reminder that Hell is never too far away with the Devil always welcome at home.

* * *

She stares him down.

“Are you going to kill me?”.

She stares him down All the way back to Hell, the fire in her eyes, on more blurrier days, the Devil would call it home.

“On your birthday? Do you really think that low of me?”

The devil must ask.

“ _Yes_.”

The weakened must answer.

And the Devil now finds himself speechless.

Not for the lack of words per say, neither for the lack of composure, but simply because the words chosen prior with lordly hands and inferior conjecture were better suited for mercy and fear, for surrender, this wonderful specimen, soft as a flame before him called for something much more sweeter, and no less pleasurable, this wounded monster with night in her eyes and blood between her teeth called for a challenge.

* * *

The Man endeavours to impose.

 _Correction_ , the Monster endeavours to impose.

He is rather immense in his being, ubiquitous perhaps, and holds in his palm with undemanding effort what a thousand eyes have seen but only a favoured few have held, he holds in his palms the wealth of a millennium grown coarse and worn as time rubs it’s guiling hands against a man’s days, and through him this millennium so immense, so boundless imposes itself in _her_ room.

The room does not disappear in the face of his immensity, it merely lessens itself, hollows it’s walls and caves it’s ceilings around him, and she supposes for that moment and perhaps all moments going forward and back, her room, her haven has only ever existed solely to bow and shorten it’s spine so that he may seem bigger, taller, never ending in this singular moment.

And how he _knows,_ with all the assurance of a lie seeded with truth, he knows the power he exudes leaves her breathless and bound.

So she stares him down, her throat tied in a pit somewhere in hell and her hands too weak, too unruly to just _listen_ , but her eyes, oh her eyes stare him down All the way back to the Hellhole he crawled from.

* * *

He, the due collecting monster, decides that manners are indeed a gentleman’s first offence,

“That looks bad. My apologies.” He pauses, rather benevolently, as all moments of screeching unfamiliarity such as these, such as apologies, do indeed expect precisely that, a moment.

“You're what's known as collateral damage. It's nothing personal.”

He makes it a point to touch her when he says the word ‘personal’, the unimaginative bracelet on her wrist is his chosen point to make. The bracelet tingles ever so lightly under his touch and her arms flex to scramble far apart, but of course fail to something even more unimaginative as exhaustion.

Then he decides he wishes to stand on common ground, bracket himself alongside her and find congeniality in this separation, as agreeability has always proven to be a Master’s preferred bluff,

“I love birthdays.”

However She, exhausted and _so_ done she, decides to push them back apart, her just as she is, weak on the bed and for all intents and purposes venomous, him, rightfully, a billions years away,

“Yeah. Aren't you like...a billion, or something?”

He smirks his breath, and now a bible verse from Sunday school comes to her mind, Dimples are the Devil’s best friend.

“Well you have to adjust your perception of time when you become a vampire, _Caroline_. Celebrate the fact that you're no longer bound by trivial human conventions. You're, free.” He _educates_ , again might he add, rather benevolently, for covert edification of a lesser being has always been exactly that, lesser than him.

But She, hoarsely of course, for there is no softness to truth, points out the embarrassing factual error to his millennium old education, “ _No_ ," She commands, "I’m dying.”

The mistake is not brushed off as all inconveniences are but now he decides intimacy is a lover’s greatest ambush, so he sits on the bed, on _her_ bed, bends his back, rather benevolently he will again add, and whispers softly, softly, _hunger,_ or as more flowery choices of words would have one believe, _Life_ into her ears,

“And I could let you die, if that's what you want. If you really believe your existence has no meaning. I thought about it myself, once or twice over the centuries, truth be told. But I'll let you in on a little _secret_.” His whispers sweeten as much as his words, closer, softer, “There is a whole world out there, waiting for you. Great cities and art and music, _genuine beauty_. And you can have all of it. You can have a thousand more birthdays. All you have to do is ask.”

* * *

Wrapped in red, much like a halo of blood, stands before her what Hell would fondly call in it’s street speak, a bargain with the Devil, of course the answer is simple, binary, obvious, but the consequences, not much unlike the bargainer, immense.

But this was never about the consequences, this was about Caroline Forbes and her pieces that need to be put back together, so sue her, sue her _hard,_ for choosing her pieces over Hell.

* * *

“I don't wanna die.”

And there it is, sweet and opaque and of course effortless, her surrender.

Come little soul, He muses, as all almighty Creators do when new playthings break in a faintly different way, that garners not much thought yet great amusement, but break all the same, Hell is rather pretty during the night, He will show you around, the creature of night that you are.

There is this intimacy to blood sharing he does not enjoy, but will allow, and each pull of blood from his wrist, is very uncomplicatedly, another part of her soul he shall have, for souls are meant for just that; to be had, to be taken.

* * *

There is this silence that needs to be filled, her brain suggests.

Gently laid back onto her pillow, guided by gentler hands of a monster, hands whose gentleness will be argued and pondered much later because god forbid she tries to make sense of it, of _any_ of it now, but with a belly full with the blood of the Devil, Her brain, her _handy_ little brain, with all the arbitration the fortunate few of society reserve in the decisions made for the unfortunate, singularly decides without a singular thought, that tact is for the most part, a very hard chore.

“You are odd.”

He blinks, rather pretentiously, and blinks again.

Her brain again, now after much contemplation and little comprehension of the situation, decides with all the flair of what can only be called YOLO, that life indeed is not that precious.

“It’s _really_ odd that your reason, the ultimate one to live for, is…. _humanity_.”

He certainly wasn't aware that his blood was potent enough to momentarily stop brain function, well neither was she for that fact, hence they venture on, together no less, to find exactly how far affected she is in her intellectual faculties.

“Explain.”

“Well there’s not much explaining to do, it’s like you said, art, music, great cities, the cultures of this world, history and beauty, _all_ of that, was created by humanity to depict…. humanity.”

There is this shrug, a rather unceremonious one, that accompanies this strange statement, and He now finds himself staring at something unprecedented, which does disquiet him a touch, not startle, not stun, all-knowing preeminent beings such as him who upend time itself over a whimsy as one does an hourglass, do not humour sentiments as tasteless as surprise, but with no amount of little difficulty he concedes he is perhaps something very dissimilarly akin to speechless for the second time this night, and in this particular moment wholly for the lack of words.

But of course, what She sees is two perfect dimples poking and an eyebrow shaped to say, ‘Is that so?’

“Sweetheart if you are looking to appease, a simple thank you would suffice.”

Her brain suggests, no louder than the wind in this spineless room, to agitate further,

“I’m just calling it as I see it.” She doesn't realize the shrug she puts in again for good measure.

“It’s a shame, truly a shame, that my blood is now flowing through the veins of a fool who cannot see a monster,” _a magnificent one_ , he acknowledges with humility a sour and unsatisfying diet he is yet to conform to, “for what He is.”

It offends him, cuts him greatly, this association, this line she pursues to draw not in between, but connecting His Monster and Humanity, it begs for a godly _shudder_ , perhaps a ritual cleansing.

“I’d say a bajillion years of being alive is enough to figure out humanity is _very_ good at being monstrous.” _Humans are ugly,_ She would know, there's a reason sunny little Caroline Forbes stays home on the sunniest of days.

“You speak of me as though I am nothing more than a common nightmare, one even _humanity_ can achieve.” The grating scrape of this unfortunate aspersion cast on him finds no tolerance in his voice, yet his words somehow crack an offered opening to appropriately rectify such slander.

But she of course finds it strenuously unsatisfying to receive with both hands this opportunity to remedy spilt words, and hence gracefully bypasses it.

There is this freeness to her voice as she prepares to speak, the kind that slips it’s unveiled head only when monsters before the eye are obscured with listless drooping eyelids of exhaustion and perhaps also during a death wish.

“I don’t know about you but most boogeymen _prefer_ being a very common nightmare, _and_ it takes a large chunk of humanity being affected constantly to become one, so yes you’re a nightmare only humanity can achieve and you’re kinda not a big deal without it.” _Without your humanity. Your dirty, hideous, bloodily broken Humanity_.

The nightmare in question has this amusement in his eyes, this mirth, shallow and thin, a misting screen over a bulging necessity called detachment and beneath all of it there is this chord, that has been struck once, maybe even twice in this moment and it brings him no amusement to find that there indeed exists a chord, for it to be struck.

There is also this derision, the amused kind of course, there is no real agitation within him, there never could be, _mightily_ unmovable that he is, but this derision, it’s the kind only a Deity would know, when loosely bridled subjects prance their thoughts through hurdles and hoops in search of grand but inordinate truths, only to come to the conclusion the Deity himself has found at his feet repeatedly, a conclusion he finds no harm in saying he has blithely kicked with not a mite of acknowledgment, there is this derision that quickly devolves to agitation.

“You’ve given this....and me, much thought haven’t you? The Devil and his humanity, What a fun little subject to ponder on, Now pray tell sweetheart, what do you think of his soul? And perhaps after that you can elucidate on his tolerance for such insipidity.”

“Like I said, no actually _you_ said, you’re a common nightmare, I obviously have given you _some_ amount of thought.”

He finds this revelation favourable, and if he may allow it, flattering.

“But as for your soul, I think you have one, and that’s the worst part about it.”

There is this sweet little smirk, and he would love to ask, How so? But that of course would dishearten the faultless veneer of indifference he has constructed and leave it regrettably ajar, so he settles for, and may he add rather benevolently, leisure amusement yet again.

The recently healed however, have always found in them pity for the unhealable, and so she answers the silent question hung from the ceiling or perhaps oddly propped up on the floor, rather benevolently she too will add, with great effort, most of which she finds would be better exerted in breathing while asleep.

“Well you’re _not_ soulless, and that’s not exactly a good thing, soulless means you’re a machine, like you know a….vending machine, there’s this set of responses you automatically throw out when someone _literally_ pushes your buttons, that’s soulless. It’s unfeeling, it’s stagnant, it’s pretty much dead, which you are as a vampire no doubt, but you’re also immortal, like as _immortal_ as it gets, so soulless means we can’t blame you for the things you’ve done because that’s all you can do, but you and I both know there’s no way you’re gonna let an empty hole in your chest dictate what you can and can’t do, so here we are, it’s worse that you do have a soul, because every dirty, disgusting, _horrendous_ thing you’ve done is because you chose to do it, not because you’re soulless and empty but because your so _full_ of it” and she doesn’t fail to clarify, “Pun totally intended.”

And he of course, as full of it as he is, finds himself smiling, with his whole face, his whole body, and he muses, _this one_ , this one understands the depth of his true evil, he is the maker of his own sin sweetheart, He was never _made_ a monster, he simply chose and continues to choose to be one, he was born a beast of fur and fang and service to the moon, then turned slave for the sun too, but the Devil, oh He made Himself.

“And do you believe I can simply choose the other side and all is well?”

“Are you seriously asking me if you’re eligible for _redemption_ right now?” She attempts to blink the incredulity out of the way but considers it all the same, “Because if that’s the case, I guess there’s some god forsaken vamp-rehab facility that will take you in as their miracle cause... _but_ I wouldn't hold out too much hope, your pieces are too rotten to fit together anymore.”

She’s just saying, even Jesus couldn't redeem THE Devil, what hope does this one have.

“And what about your pieces Caroline? Do they fit together just right.”

Now is the moment she is one hundred percent sure, with all the clarity needed to discern demon eyes in the dark, that she is indeed clinically unhinged to let this information slip.

There is no reason to confirm her broken pieces, let alone present them as they are, jumbled and unmatched in her palms, yet she speaks of her plans for them with assurance one rarely ever finds in the threshold of Hell.

“I’ve picked them up, but like you said, I have a thousand more birthdays to figure out if they fit.”

“I must say, a thousand is a rather harsh gamble I made prematurely, that mouth on you certainly knows how to shorten your days.”

And of course he ends with a threat, a clear cut one, it’s neither perfunctory nor forced, it is simply necessary, to redraw that line that both Devil, the healer, an epithet he must savour while it lasts, and the reimbursed immortal, the healed, have not just crossed but had momentarily obliterated in an exchange of what is rather aptly called, a heart to heart.

“Goodnight Caroline, I look forward to seeing more of you,” _All of you_ , “Again.”

For it was indeed not uncommon for surrender to turn to thankless and dreadfully banal subterfuge, but it was pleasurably rare that surrender unveils itself to be a flaring gambit against the King.

* * *

_It_ takes a whole night, or perhaps a whole day and a night after his little interlude with one Caroline Forbes, customarily enough, time and it’s passage happens to be of little import to beings as perdurable as him, but the point to be considered is that the creation of _It_ did take him enough hours to note time's apparent passage, but nevertheless as he stands before _It_ , His creation, his vision, his _art_.

Or as she would have him say, his torn, nay, recklessly missing little humanity, of course, just another meretricious term to call him a crueler monster, but he indulges her either way, yet something perpetually propounds to him, awful insistently and with much lack of candor might he add, that this won’t be the first and last time for such indulgence.

 _It_ was She, painted in soft gold and softer cream, with lips the softest and cheeks the warmest, nose and chin freckled, and her unduly powerful mouth upturned with a slyly familiar curve. 

The painting thrived and flourished, the richness of it, of Her was immanent in the air, and there was much reverence to be inspired in the viewer he noticed, however He was the Creator and therefore must deny to have noticed this trifling reverence a viewer will speak of, but as He stands before the finished _It,_ what he does allow himself tonotice is that _all_ of her forced his breathless lungs to draw an unaccommodating breath in, but only one part of the entire _It_ , expels the forcefully accommodated breath with the keenness of an admirer who aims to possess.

What left him inordinately breathless were her eyes, perhaps the most striking part of them was the fact that they were _not_ blue,

They were not her human cornflower blue, neither were they her monster’s midnight black, they were _ruthless_ , and they were gold.

They were that of a hybrid, and they were most strikingly, His.

Gold as bright as a Halo in her eyes, after all, the Devil doth favour his fallen Angels.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for reading, I'm sorry to say this is probably the last of me you will hear in maybe months, weeks, I don't know, I'm in a very odd posistion in my life right now, so I'll be taking a lot of time off to prod and poke and figure out wtf my life is trying to do, so till then lot's of smothering hugs and big fat smooches as goodbye to you guys! 
> 
> All the love and peace and health to all of you
> 
> xx  
> love,  
> Srishti ♥


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